Recapture
by samira403
Summary: Written for The Houses Competition [Y4]. When life goes our way, we seldom pause to think on why we do what we do. For Ginny, this is the day when life makes her reckon with herself and she tries to recapture the past to seek the answers to her questions. Drabble.


**Author's note: Written for The Houses Competition. **

**Prompt: **_[Setting] Professional Quidditch Pitch_

**Word count**: 702

* * *

_February, 2014. Dartmoor, Great Britain. Quidditch Trillenium Stadium._

Ginny Potter, wrapped in a thick woolen coat and boots up to her knees, stood on the side lines of the Trillenium pitch where the fateful final of the 1994 Quidditch World Cup had been played.

In the watery light of winter morning and without the cacophony of players zipping around the five hundred feet area, it did seem like just an empty space. However, for the young woman, it was an empty space that was filled with memories.

Her eyes misted with bittersweet sorrow as they surveyed the stands that surrounded the pitch. After the Death Eaters' attack that night, half of the fancy infrastructure had collapsed; burned down to rubbles and soot, and time had washed away the vestiges of the first Professional Quidditch pitch that Ginny had set foot in.

If she closed her eyes, she could just about picture the scene again. High up there, just opposite from where she stood now, a young, overjoyed and impressionable Ginny Weasley had been pressed against a railing with her family. Wearing a giant Irish hat and dazzled by the brilliant lights, she had been so carefree and euphoric. Well, Ginny admitted to herself now, she had been a different person.

That day had been a defining moment in her life. Introspectively, she could admit that the fans, the cheers, the lights, the intensity of the game, the prowess of the players- all of these had stoked her desire to play professional Quidditch. Being on her first professional Quidditch pitch had made Ginny feel alive. There was no other way to put it. However, there was also more to it.

Ginny accepted the fact today that she had also seen in that moment, a life out of the shadows of her brothers and her famous husband. Whoever celebrity, top level official or pureblood family mingling on the stands, their eyes were inevitably drawn to the pitch. The stars on that pitch, on that stage, remained the Quidditch players; and Ginny had craved that recognition of her own.

Unsettled, she tugged her scarf up to her nose and trudged forward onto the grass. She had left her broom at home to force herself to experience the pitch without the rush of flying. It was something she had never really done, not even when she played here years ago with the Harpies. She had never realised that until being given the assignment of correspondent for the Daily Prophet at the upcoming Quidditch final in Patagonia.

Her husband and sons had been so keen. She could still hear the glee their voices as they discussed favourites, mascots, gossip and gear. In her head, Quidditch had long turned to speed, player rotation, tactics and statistics. Today, tired of the self-doubts and the voices in her head telling her to turn down the job, Ginny acted on sentiments and came here, to the place where it all began for her.

She looked towards the sky, trying to admire how far up Quidditch players flew and appreciate the skill needed to accomplish half the things they did on a broom. Those hoops were no easy targets to aim for. She chuckled as she faced the right set of hoops, remembering the first goal Troy had scored in the left low. She had memorised his every action and had spent several months at Hogwarts' training ground executing the same.

Logic insisted that she already knew Quidditch. Her heart knew otherwise. Her ego was not going to help her if she had to write an article for the entire British Wizarding community. She needed patience. She needed the fieriness and spontaneity that she had somehow lost in the course of a war, marriage, motherhood and a professional Quidditch career. Quidditch was a dream for her, a passion.

As she turned to start the trek back to the apparition point, she understood what she had to write a brilliant article. She needed to get back the Ginny who would sneak out brooms and fly around for hours, imagining games in her head. In April, she would need to feel the atmosphere, the anticipation, to live in the moment of the final match.


End file.
